


A Prayer For You

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Supernatural (Reader Insert Verse) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Romantic Comedy, morose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 02:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13472256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: You come back to the empty bunker, finding the Impala gone and hide nor hair of Dean, Cas, or Sam. But upon a second inspection, water running in the showers draws your attention and there you find Sam.





	A Prayer For You

**Author's Note:**

> The entire first paragraph of this piece was missing, but has been added as of 1/30/2018.

The bunker slammed shut its heavy metal door, the raucous clamor echoing with your heavy boots thumping on the spiral metal staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, the library lay empty, not a soul in sight but for the signs of their passage sprawled across the long, central table. Two laptops, several books, empty glasses, and a notepad with a pen atop it littered the surface, obscuring its earthen brown grain.

“Hello?”

Your call faded to silence, unanswered, unheard. Beside a lifeless laptop, you set your latest find—a Sumerian text Sam once complained the bunker lacked while praising its invaluable information. Another quick scan of the library yielded no further clues, and so, you ventured through the control and turned to the kitchen. Maybe a late dinner had beckoned Dean, his inhuman appetite never sated.

But the kitchen stood empty, too, no hint of life to witness. Pristine steel countertops glistened in the overhead fluorescent light, their immaculate surface begging for a fresh smattering of flour or a swathe of melted butter. And though the appeal of baking teased your senses, a more pressing matter—finding out what happened to your new family—took precedence.

At the nearest intersection, a right lead you to the garage where a quick glance revealed no Impala. In the far corner sat your pale-yellow Mercury Cyclone, covered, of course, at Dean’s behest. The Cyclone might as well have been Dean’s child, too, second only to his Impala.

“Dean?” you called. “Sam?” echoed through the cavernous garage. “Cas?”

Nothing.

The fine hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, raising stiff as gooseflesh spread across your arms. A thick swallow knotted in your throat, tongue dry and sticking to your teeth. Endless questions tumbled through your head, rattling in the fog of confusion that clouded your memory.

Since the day you’d met them, Sam, Dean, and the angel Castiel never left you behind, never once telling you to stay in the car or to stay in the bunker. Hot on the trail of the Sphinx that killed your hunting partner, they happened upon you in the beast’s maze. Where they wanted answers, you demanded justice for Anthony’s death. And there, Sam taught you an invaluable lesson.

“Y/N, revenge is not justice. Killing that creature will not bring Anthony back.”

Tears stung your eyes as the vivid memory replayed in your mind’s eye. Mere months past, Anthony’s death festered, a gaping wound, deep and untreated for far too long. Your best friend and partner, he’d always had your six. But Sam was right. And even better, the Sphinx answered Castiel’s questions about a boy named Jack. Weeks passed before you understood Sam’s words, but on that fateful day, you found what you had searched for since Anthony’s passing.

A family.

Eyes wiped clean, you returned to the long corridor, heading for the library. Your latest hunt required more research, and the Men of Letters bunker suffered from no shortage in reading material. But near the intersection of the control room, the distant rush of running water diverted your attention, drawing your stride to a halt. With a straining ear, you listened, tilting your head to pinpoint the source. While the kitchen sat in the opposite direction, the showers ended the curving hall before you, twisting around the corner and out of sight.

Tension seized your shoulders, muscles tight in the wake of unspoken questions. From the small of your waistband, you withdrew your gun, a sleek Taurus not unlike Dean’s, and disengaged the safety. With both hands wrapped around the grip and the weapon leading, you edged along the arching hallway lined with rooms, their heavy wooden doors shut but for one.

Sam’s room, sparse aside from his bed and desk, lay empty. Bed made with neat folds, books lining the shelves in precise order, and a clean desk, it appeared as if no one lived there. But an errant piece of paper on the chair grasped your attention, and a quick check of the hall ensured your stealth. You darted into his room, snatching up the note to find fresh ink sprawled across the paper, a personal note written in a shaking hand.

_I’m sorry, Mom. We’re still trying. We’ll find a way to get you back soon. I swear._

If not for the piece of paper, the open door remained the only sign of Sam’s presence. He never left his door open while away from the bunker. Though well hidden, Sam’s penchant for stashing their more invaluable items in the secret spaces of his quarters demanded every precaution.

And yet his door stood wide open. With a quick step, you rush back to the hallway and peeked over the threshold to the showers, the sound of running water obvious now. Another read of the short note confirmed your suspicions, and, with a resigned sigh, you returned to the hallway and replaced your Taurus in its holster.

Dean considered your previous mission a disaster of monumental proportions. Although nobody had died, you’d taken ten steps back in returning Mary to your timeline. Dean bottled up that frustration, capping it tighter than a lid on a pickle jar. His anger trickled out in small bursts of frustration, a flipped chair here and a busted bottle there. And no matter how Sam or you or Cas tried to talk to him, nothing but soldiering on helped him cope.

While Sam coped with most setbacks well—an almost naïve optimism maintained him— _this_  failure had crushed his faith. Within hours of returning to the bunker, Sam’s mood slipped beyond consoling. He spoke little and less over the ensuing days, a malaise that not only darkened Sam but the entire world. The light of his faith shined brighter than sun since that day you’d met. But now?

The water stopped with a squeak, snapping your focus from the depths of your thoughts. Silence filled your ears, a deafening roar broken only by a distant exhaust fan. Careful footfalls bore you around the corner and into the locker room, steam rolling along the ceiling as it searched for an escape. Several lockers lined the tiny entry, burnished gold wood shining bright beneath their spotlights. And there on a bench sat Sam, sopping hair falling limp around his shadowed face and head hanging low between his hunched shoulders.

Across his knees lay a favored red and black flannel, and broad shoulders clad in black heaved with a shuddering sigh. Dark denim led to bare feet, toes rolling on the shimmering brown tile with an irregular beat. A shaking hand carded through his brown hair, sending thin rivulets of water along his neck to soak in his shirt. When another heaving sigh raised his shoulders, you hesitated, a tentative step hovering over the threshold and a hand on the trim of the doorway.

Maybe Sam sat there, alone, for a reason. The last few weeks had robbed them of any justice, and so Sam’s mood sunk to a new level. And the longer you thought about it, the more it made sense; he needed time on his own, and so, on your heel, you turned to leave. But tension rippled across his back as you stepped, caught out of the corner of your eye. And there, in that liminal space between seconds, Sam whispered a quivering plea.

“Chuck? Ar—are you there? It’s… it’s Sam. I—”

His thought faltered, hanging on a breath caught in his throat.  

“I know you don’t owe us anything. Hell, we owe you. More than I care to admit. But—”

Another hitch in his throat snagged his voice, a thick swallow bobbing his head. “We need your help, Chuck. We’re in a bad way. I’m sure you know Mary’s… stuck. In that place. We could really use a hand with this one.  _Again_.”

A long pause filled the room with a solemn silence, Sam sitting still as stone. Seconds ticked by, the sound of your watch so loud you feared Sam might hear. But after several minutes, he remained there, hunched over his knees, unmoving. And then the silence broke with a choking gasp.

“Please,” he begged. “We need her. You can’t just… give her back to us and then take her away again. Please, help us. Send us whatever— _whoever_ —you can.”

On the heels of his prayer, an incessant impulse drove a shock between your shoulders so sharp, you all but jumped over the threshold. The urge, the need to comfort, to console and care for Sam in his wretched state of mind rent a gasp from your lungs that reverberated off the tiled locker room walls.

Sam wheeled around, hand reaching for an absent gun at the small of his back. When red and puffy hazel eyes found yours, his guard slipped to surprise, and then to relief. With a hand to his heart, he sighed. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t know you were there.”

Of course, he didn’t. But you had not meant to snoop or spy on him in such a private moment. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’ll… leave you be. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t go.”

You hesitated on your toes, ready to flee in an instant. But the sound of Sam’s voice, of his desperate need for company sunk to the pit of your stomach, a lead weight drawing you to him. God, but he looked exhausted, sunken eyes and shallow cheeks the echoes of his sleepless nights and hungry days.

“Please?”

Without another thought, you crossed the tile and sat on the bench beside Sam, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “What can I do to help?”

A hint of a smile found his lips and your heart skipped a beat. “Be you.” He laughed through his nose as he shook his head. “That seems to help more than most things lately.”

Kind as ever, Sam’s compassion knew no bounds. But no appropriate response found your voice and so you remained silent. There, Sam sucked a deep breath through his nose before he spoke.

“I can’t believe I’m about to ask you this, but I want to. I’ve wanted to for weeks.”

That same sinking sensation returned, your stomach plummeting as if the floor had fallen from beneath your feet. Son of a bitch, he knew. Always so perceptive, Sam had read you like an open book. And now, at the end of his rope, he needed you more than ever.

“Can you come closer?”

The warmth of him radiated over you in waves as your hip met his, gun oil, musty books, and a hint of coconut filling your nose. So close, you breathed him in, a deep inhale as a massive arm encircled your shoulders. The chilling rush of excitement numbed your fingers and toes, and a shiver rushed along your spine despite Sam’s warmth. But as soon as his hand found your hip, he hesitated, withdrawing.

“Is… is this okay? I’m… shit, I’m so bad at this. It’s been so long.”

You laughed despite Sam’s doubts, shifting closer and settling his hand on your hip. Along his spine, your fingers trailed, and the tension seeped from his knotted muscles at your touch. The weight of him leaned heavy, and a part of you marveled at the ease with which Sam trusted you. Little else compared to this, the nearness, the absolute overwhelming presence of this vulnerable, beautiful man relying on you for support.

“Thank you, Y/N. I was… in a pretty bad place there for a few days.”

You nodded, head rubbing against his chest like a small cat. “I noticed. I didn’t know what to do, but I was worried about you.”

The press of his lips atop your head sent another shiver along your spine. And then a squeeze of his arm held you closer, pressed tight against his chest. Another long stretch of silent minutes passed you by, but for once, you ignored time. For you, and for Sam, in that moment, time ceased to exist, stretching to give you an eternal minute together. And for as little as you believed, you prayed to God that Sam never let you go.

 _Prayed_.

“You were praying earlier?”

A casual hum agreed with you, but Sam said nothing else as he nuzzled your hair.

“Who’s Chuck?”

For the first time in weeks, his obnoxious laughter filled your ears, and you swore nothing in the world sounded sweeter than Sam Winchester’s laugh.


End file.
